


Bruises

by VixaColt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Bruises, Corporal Punishment, Dom!Sam, Domestic Discipline, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Kinky, Light Dom/sub, Marking, Non-Consensual Spanking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Possessive Sam Winchester, Possessive Sex, Protective Dean Winchester, Punishment, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-25 18:19:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14384349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VixaColt/pseuds/VixaColt
Summary: Sam spanks you hard enough to leave bruises. Now how are you supposed to get laid?





	1. Chapter 1

Sam is pissed, and that pisses you off. Mostly because it's completely unfounded: He's mad because you swooped in and gutted the black-eyed bitch with an angel blade before he'd managed to get the demon lair details out of her. You didn't expect him to be _pleased,_ but he has no right to be as angry as he is -- at the end of the day, it's one more demon back in Hell, and that's a win.

Plus, if you hadn't stepped in when you did, neither of you would've been ready for the onslaught of nasty Hell beasts that barreled through the door seconds later. Now that you think about it, Sam _should_ be thanking you, not clenching his jaw and flashing his eyes and giving his brother "I told you she wasn't ready for this" looks.

Dean -- who is understandably annoyed that the hunt didn't yield quite as much info as he'd hoped, but who is not so bull-headed and self-righteous as to place all the blame on your shoulders -- is doing his best to stay neutral. You glance up to the rearview mirror and try to meet his eyes so you can give him a _look_ regarding his brother, but he keeps his gaze on the road and steadfastly refuses to engage in any look-giving or -receiving. This isn't particularly surprising; Dean's never been one for interpersonal conflict. He likes when things are black, white, and easy to kill.

_Fine,_ you think to yourself. _I'll be the bigger person._

"You know, she wasn't going to give up anything anyway," you say, trying to sound casual and not-pissed.

Sam huffs out a sharp puff of air and shoots a glare over his shoulder.

"We're not gonna talk about this now, Y/N," he grumbles.

You roll your eyes. "Really, Sam? Not now? What, are you waiting to assemble a tribunal?"

Sam stares straight ahead, ignoring you.

"Fine, whatever, if you want to be pissed at me for doing _what we do_ , that's your choice, Sammy." You can't help the patronizing tone that filters into the end of your sentence.

Sam's shoulder twitches.

"Don't call me Sammy." 

* * *

Twenty minutes later Dean swings the Impala into a parking space in front of your adjoining motel rooms. He turns off the engine and turns to face you and Sam.

"I'm gonna shower, pass out for a bit, maybe head to the bar across the street," Dean says, slowly and clearly, like he's speaking to a couple of six-year-olds. " _You two,_ " he nods in your direction. "Are not allowed in my room until you figure this--" he gestures between the two of you, "--out."

Sam snorts.

"Ah-ah," Dean holds up a finger. "You're locked out, Sammy."

"I'll pick it," Sam shoots back.

"I'll put a chair under the knob."

"I'll break the chair."

"I'll punch you in the face."

"You think you can take me!"

"Okay, okay," you say, waving a hand between the two men. "This is the dumbest showdown I've ever seen."

You turn to Dean and smile sweetly at him. "We'll work it out, _Dad_. Promise."

Dean narrows his eyes and gives you a brief look. Then he slides out of the car and rushes into the boys' room and slams the door behind him, presumably to start barricading it from his brother.

You look over at Sam, and he stares back at you for a beat, lips pressed together in contempt. "I'm picking that fucking lock," he mutters, his hand on the door handle.

"Sam," you put your hand on his shoulder and he pauses, though he doesn't turn back or otherwise acknowledge you. "Let's just get cleaned up or whatever and then you can pick the lock on the door between the rooms."

Sam chuckles at that, and gets out of the car.

* * *

"I'm showering first," you say as you unlock the door to your room. It's _your_ room, after all. Sam shrugs and flings himself on one of the beds, pulling out his phone.

You take your sweet time in the shower -- you're in no hurry to leave the sanctuary of soothing hot water and face angry Sam. You're still pissed that Sam is pissed, but your feelings are starting to soften as the dirt washes away. And you can sort of understand why Sam is so upset with you, because now the three of you will have to spend hours researching, driving, and hunting just to get back to the same rung on the ladder you'd been standing on today. And, well, you do have a tendency to go with your gut rather than your head.

And, truth be told, you're not really pissed that Sam is pissed, you're hurt…and a little annoyed with yourself. You've had a pretty big crush on the younger Winchester for…well, forever, and after today it's pretty clear that he thinks of you as a reckless amateur, not a badass sexy hunter. Ugh.

You step out of the shower when the water starts to run lukewarm and wrap yourself in a towel. You pad out of the bathroom to where Sam's sitting on the edge of one of the beds, looking…well, still really pissed. Looks like your cathartic shower reflections didn't extend to the bedroom.

You plop down on the bed opposite Sam, facing him, and wring the water out of your hair. He says nothing, and you roll your eyes.

"Look, I know you're still mad about the hunt, and I know you think I'm stupid and impulsive and whatever, but if I hadn't gutted her when I did we would not have been ready for the incoming cavalry," you say. Sam glances up at you, hazel eyes murky. He furrows his brow.

"I knew they were coming," he says. "Why do you think Dean was laying traps?!"

Your mouth snaps shut. _Ah...shit._

Your revelation must show on your face, because Sam throws a hand up, through his hair, and gives you an exasperated glare. "Goddammit, Y/N," Sam says. "If you'd just listen to me for once!"

There's a beat, and then Sam raises an eyebrow at your silence. "What, no snappy comeback?" He asks drily.

You feel a little bad about the whole thing, especially since it's pretty clear now that it really was...kind of your fault…but the smugness in Sam's expression makes you want to slap him. "Uh, whoops?" You deadpan. You're certainly not about to apologize.

"Really, that's it?" Sam asks, eyebrow still raised.

"I'll listen to you next time, okay? Whatever, it's over," you say, huffing out a sigh.

"It's really not," Sam says, eyes flashing.

He reaches over and snags your wrist and pulls you off the bed. You stumble toward him -- your other hand flies up to keep your towel in place -- until you're standing awkwardly between his long legs. He looks up at you, eyes dark with something other than just annoyance. Then he tugs your wrist and you trip over his legs, tumbling forward until you're sprawled across his lap.

Before you realize what's happening, his hand comes slamming down on your ass.

"Sam!" You yelp in surprise, and immediately try to push yourself up and off the bed.

No dice.

"Quiet," he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist and tucking you up against him. His hand comes down again and you completely ignore his direction by letting out an undignified squeal.

"I said, _quiet,_ " Sam hisses, punctuating each syllable with a humiliating smack to your towel-covered butt. You squirm on his lap, but he's quite a bit stronger than you and he's got all the leverage -- he has no trouble keeping you firmly in place. He reaches down and pulls your towel up until he can see your bare bottom, and you suddenly realize just how vulnerable you are. He lands another flurry of spanks to your naked backside, and you cry out and whimper as you try desperately to get away from his hand.

"Fine," Sam says, yanking the towel off. "We'll do this the hard way."

Now that you're completely naked, Sam has you at his mercy. He continues to deliver loud, painful slaps, and you continue to yell and carry on like you're being murdered. Luckily (or perhaps not-so-luckily), the staff at cheap roadside motels don't pay too much attention to the noises coming from their rooms. Sam spanks you a couple of times on the tops of your thighs, just below your ass, and that _really_ hurts.

You are, of course, completely humiliated. Well, completely humiliated and a little turned on. The ease with which Sam is manhandling you is pretty hot, even if it's clear that this is purely punishment and not at all foreplay.

But now the spanking is really starting to hurt. Sam is concentrating his smacks right at the lower part of your ass, and you can't help the tears that are starting to roll down your cheeks. He can hear the shift in the veracity of your cries, and this only seems to spur him on more. You've stopped fighting the punishment; you're lying submissively over Sam's knee and pushing your face into the cheap comforter and trying not to think about the fact that Dean's half a deadbolt away, and can probably hear every smack and sob in excruciating detail.

By the time Sam finally stops, you're crying so hard that it takes you a second to realize he's finished.

Sam keeps his arm tucked around you while you struggle to stop crying.

"Shh, baby girl," he says softly, calmly. "Good girl. It's okay, it's over."

The moment you have a handle on your emotions, you push yourself up and he helps you stand in front of him. He leans down and picks your towel off the floor and hands it to you, a sheepish smirk on his face as his eyes roam briefly -- but unashamedly -- over your body. You wipe your eyes and wrap the towel around yourself, even though there's not much need for modesty at this point.

Sam stands up and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. You're frozen for a moment -- you simultaneously want to hit him, hide from him, and fuck him, and you're not quite sure where this completely PG embrace fits into that plan. Eventually you wrap your arms around him and lean into his embrace. He smells good, and you feel safe and forgiven in his arms.

* * *

The next morning you wake to Sam's soft snores. You glance over at the spare bed and see the tall hunter passed out on top of the covers.

You slide out of your bed and make your way to the bathroom. The bathroom is tiny, and your butt hits the sink as you turn to close the door behind you. You let out a hiss and peek around you to see what the damage looks like in the mirror and…well, shit. Your ass is still a little red, and a couple of substantial-looking bruises are starting to bloom across your cheeks. Sitting down is going to be a challenge.

When you're finished brushing your teeth, you whisper out of the bathroom and over to your suitcase to find something to wear. You manage to pull on a t-shirt and some underwear when there's a rap at the door.

"Breakfast!" Dean yells, and you root around for some leggings. You find a pair of shorts and hop quickly over to the door before Dean knocks again and wakes up Sam.   

You pull the door open and Dean sidles his way in, handing you a tray of coffees and a bag of breakfast sandwiches. You pull an egg and bacon sandwich out and take a bite before turning back to your suitcase to find some real pants. As you bend over your shorts ride up and Dean sees the bruises on your ass and lets out a low whistle.

"Whoa, did Sammy do that?" He asks, dragging a sip from one of the coffees. You straighten up quickly and shoot him a look.

"Um…yeah." A flush spreads uncomfortably across your face.

Dean visibly bristles. "Are you okay?"

You give him an embarrassed but reassuring smile. "I'm fine. It's…I, um, probably deserved it."

Dean looks skeptical, so you continue, "Don't worry, you don't need to beat him up or anything."

"Yeah, right," Dean mutters into his coffee. He cocks his head. "So…are you two, like, together?"

"What? No," you say quickly. That's a question you're pretty sure neither of you are ready to touch. "Nothing like that."

"Uh-huh." Dean looks like he's about to start grilling you, but there's movement in the corner of the room.

"You got coffee?" Sam sits up sleepily.

"Think fast!" Dean hurls a cup toward Sam, who doesn't even have to look to catch it.

Sam takes a long drink and opens his eyes. He looks at Dean and then at you, and when his gaze lands on you his eyes soften. "Hey, baby girl," he gives you a nod. "How're you feeling?"

He doesn't seem to realize he's said anything out of the ordinary, but Dean looks like he has all the questions, and you suddenly feel nervous. "I'll live, Sammy," you mean for it to come out teasingly, to regain some control over the situation, but you just end up sounding small and obedient. This isn't lost on Sam, who offers you a warm smile with just a trace of smugness.

Dean, on the other hand, glares at you like you're a total liar. Which, you suppose, is fair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can't get laid, neither can Sam. Or...something like that.

"Huh," Dean says, taking a swig from his beer bottle. "Guess you two really aren't together." He nods toward the end of the bar, where Sam is running a hand up the back of a pretty blonde.

You take a deep breath and look away, but you can still see them out of the corner of your eye.

"Yeah," you mutter, swirling the ice cubes in your glass around with a cocktail straw. "Guess not."

Dean raises an eyebrow at the sullen look on your face. It's clear to him that _something_ transpired between you and Sam last night -- he's just not sure what. And, being Dean, he's not about to get in the middle of that mess.

He playfully nudges you with his elbow. "You know, if Sammy's getting some, you should, too," he smiles down at you, green eyes twinkling. "That guy over by the dartboard has been drooling over you since we walked in."

Your eyes follow Dean's nod over to an attractive dark-haired man in a black leather jacket. He's hot -- _really_ hot -- but you're just not feeling it. Right now all you're feeling is longish brown hair and hazel puppy dog eyes and big _fucking sexy_ hands that know just how to hold you down…

But you can't help smiling back at Dean, who's looking hopeful and excited. Dean's second-favorite thing to do, after getting laid himself, is getting everyone else laid.

"I don't think tonight's the night, buddy," you force a chuckle. "Besides, you saw those bruises. How am I going to explain that to a one-night stand?"

"Pretty sure we're bruised all the damn time," Dean responds, and you snort. He's got a point.

"Yeah…but not like this," you say, dropping your eyes and your voice. "Bruises on my ass…not exactly dangerous and sexy."

"Well, maybe you should go leave some bruises on Sammy," Dean wiggles his eyebrows and snickers.

"Yeah," you reply with an eye roll. "Maybe."

You look over at Sam, who's moved closer to his blonde conquest. The ease with which he's flirting bothers you: You can't even sit down without thinking of him, and you'll be damned if he's going to go home with some random chick without thinking of you. Your eyes narrow and you hop off your bar stool, throwing your shoulders back.

Dean smiles as he watches you psych yourself up to go over and confront Sam. He taps the underside of your chin in a "go-get-em" gesture. "Don't beat him up too bad," he says, grinning. "Though he probably deserves it."

* * *

You're about five feet from Sam and the blonde when you start to lose your nerve. Sam isn't paying attention to you at all, he's leaning down and touching her cheek and flashing her his stupidly charming grin.

You glance back at Dean, who's already got his arm wrapped around a tall Asian girl. He's giving you a thumbs-up behind her back.

You take a deep breath and stalk up to Sam. You snake your arm around his waist and slide up next to him, not-so-gently elbowing the blonde so she has to take a step back. She lets out an indignant huff and looks to Sam for defense, but he's looking down at you with an annoyed -- and slightly amused -- expression.

"Whatever," she mutters. She grabs the guy next to her and kisses him square on the lips while glancing back at Sam to see if he even cares. He doesn't, but the guy she's kissing seems more than happy to be the rebound.

"What's your problem, Y/N?" Sam asks as you tuck yourself under his arm. He's smirking now, and you know it's because your actions are making you look like a jealous girlfriend.

"What's _your_ problem, Sam?" You retort. You pluck his drink from his hand and take a swig, trying to calm yourself down. You're annoyed because you're here to confront him and yet somehow he seems to have gained control of the situation. "If I can't get laid, you can't either!"

Now Sam just looks confused. "I'm not stopping you," he says, grabbing his drink back and swallowing the rest quickly. He tosses his head at the room. "Be my guest. Get fucked." He punctuates his statement with a wink.

"Right, Sammy," you roll your eyes. "That's really an option with the bruises on my ass." Your voice lowers a little and you hope Sam doesn't see the heat that's spreading across your cheeks and down over your chest. "Because, you know, plenty of guys want to hear about how another dude _spanked_ you."

A smug grin spreads slowly over Sam's face, and you want to slap it off him.

"So until the bruises go away, I can't exactly 'get fucked,'" you poke him hard in the chest. "And neither can you."

"Oh, is that right?" Sam straightens up, but he's still grinning.

"Yeah, that's right," you respond, straightening up with him and holding his gaze. You don't blink.

"Okay," he says. His eyes are dark now, practically black, and the look on his face is dangerous. Predatory.

"Oh…okay?" You're not sure what to say to that. You're not even sure what he means. You suddenly realize that you don't exactly have a plan...in fact, you don't even really know what your goal was, coming over here and baiting him like that. "Uh…um…"

Before you can formulate anything coherent, Sam's arm is around your waist and he's dragging you up against him. Your breath catches as you feel his body, all hard edges and muscle, pressed up against yours. One of his hands travels up your back and tangles in your hair, tugging lightly so you're looking up at him. He dips his head until your lips are practically touching.

"Yeah," Sam breathes. You can feel his words. "Okay." He pulls back slightly, a hint of that smug grin still playing over his face. "I won't fuck any random girls until your ass is all better."

You want to slap him, or yell at him, or do something -- something to show him you're not just a pliant, jealous little girl that he can tease and toy with -- but then he leans down and presses his lips to yours insistently and all you can feel is white-hot heat pooling in your belly and everything feels so _right_. He still has one hand knitted through your hair but the other is roaming, down your back and lower, until his long fingers are gliding over the pockets of your tight skinny jeans. He squeezes your ass gently and you gasp, and his tongue darts inside your mouth and tangles with yours and, _shit_ , you're lost.

And then, suddenly, it's over. He lets go of you abruptly and you stumble against him because he was the only thing holding you up. He smirks as you catch your balance. Then he grabs your wrist and pulls it up to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the inside. "But," he winks at you and your stupid knees go weak. "I _am_ getting laid tonight." 

* * *

The walk to your motel room takes minutes, or hours, you don't know. All you can focus on is Sam, although Sam doesn't seem to be paying much attention to you as he tugs you along. He doesn't speak or even glance at you until you're outside the door and you're fumbling for the room key in your purse. When you find it you hand it to him silently and he unlocks the door and pulls you inside.

You reach out automatically to flick on the light. There's a soft click, and the room fills with incandescent glow and then your back hits the door as Sam turns and presses you against it with his body.

You barely have time to take a breath before his lips are slanted across yours and he's kissing you like it's his right. He has one knee lodged between your thighs and his hands are locked around your waist, fingers pressing into the skin where your shirt has ridden up. You weave your hands through his hair and tug; he groans, and he can feel you smile at that against his lips.

You pull him down and deepen the kiss, flicking your tongue over his, so he knows that he's not the only one in control; he's not the only one who wants this.

_And holy fuck, do you want this._

You can't help grinding against the thigh that's pressed between your legs, and Sam pulls back, smirking, when he realizes what you're doing.

"Naughty," he says, dark eyes playful. He reaches down and deftly unbuttons your jeans, slipping his fingers inside your panties to cup your sex. You moan and grind against him, not caring how shameless you look. He slides one finger along your slit and you gasp as he teasingly dips inward.

"So fucking wet, Y/N," his lips ghost across the shell of your ear as he slips two fingers deep inside you.

"Sam--I--" You can't seem to form sentences any more, especially not when he's curling his fingers _just like that_. You look up at him, your eyes big and pleading, and he scrapes along your inner walls and then thrusts up, hard, almost painfully. "Sammy, _please_."

"Please, what?" He asks as he continues to finger-fuck you, enjoying the little noises and movements you're making as he plays with your body. He can feel you getting wetter as he pushes inside you.

" _Please_ ," you groan. His hands are fucking talented, but you've been aching to feel his cock inside you since he took you over his knee. "Fuck me."

You pull off your shirt quickly, impatiently, hoping he'll get the hint. You unhook your bra and peel it off in one motion. Sam's eyes immediately drop to your chest and he pulls his fingers out of you to cup your breasts in his hands. He kneels down and you kick off your heels and shimmy out of your jeans and panties as he sucks one nipple into his mouth and rolls over it with his tongue.

"Sam!" You hiss as he bites down, gently, and his eyes dart up to yours. You're still doing a terrible job of forming sentences, so you nod toward the bed. He wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up briefly before tossing you onto it. You let out a yelp as your ass hits the comforter and you quickly turn over, rising up to your knees and then sitting back on your haunches. Sam strips quickly and climbs onto the bed behind you.

"Down," Sam whispers in your ear. You start to twist around to look at him but he places one hand on the small of your back and pushes you down. "Hands and knees."

He pushes you until your face is against the bed and your ass is in the air, and you shudder at how exposed and vulnerable this position leaves you. You can feel his hands running gently over your ass, and you twist just a little to see that he's looking at your bruises. He sees you looking back at him and he smirks.

"You look good like this," he says, patting your ass lightly. "All marked up. Mine." The tip of his cock is bobbing against your entrance and you can only half-concentrate on what he's saying. But that's enough to know that he sounds like he thinks he owns you, and even though a tiny part of you thinks that's hot as fuck, there's another stupid, rebellious part of you that wants to claim your independence.

"You don't own me," you say softly, almost half-heartedly. It's supposed to be an assertion, but it sounds more like a plea. Sam chuckles behind you.

"What's that, baby girl?" He asks, and you feel him lining his cock up with your wet, sopping center. You start to turn over, to take control of the situation, but his free arm goes around your waist and holds you in place and you gasp as he slams himself inside you with one quick thrust.

"Ah-- _fuck_ \--Sammy--" is all you can grit out as he bears down on you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He's huge, bigger than any guy you've been with, but you're so wet it's almost embarrassing and he slides in easily. He doesn't give you much time to adjust -- that's okay, you hardly need it -- before he twists his hips and thrusts and elicits a rough moan from you.

"That's what I thought," he growls as he pins you to the bed and slams into you again. "You're fucking mine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when your bruises are gone?

**One Week Later**

* * *

 Sam captures your wrists in one hand, above your head, on the pillow. You arch your back and press your ass up into him, grinding against his hardness.

"Fuck me, Sammy," you whimper. He drops a kiss to the back of your neck and raises himself up on an elbow so he can admire your body.

"What?" You ask when you feel him hesitate. You twist your neck around to see that he's looking at your ass.

"Your bruises are almost gone," he says.

"Oh, yeah," you respond uncertainly, rolling over to face him. "I guess."

It dawns on you that this entire arrangement -- whatever it is -- is because of those bruises. And as fun as this past week has been, that's all it's really been -- fun. You've both been very careful not to drop any emotions outside the context of sex. Even when Sam holds you down, presses you into the mattress and demands you say you're his, it's still just sex.

Sure, there's been a lot of sex. But when the two of you aren't naked and fucking like the world's about to end, the relationship is pretty similar to how it's always been.

Friends. Hunters. A dash of unrequited love and sexual tension.

Even Dean, who's no stranger to ultra-casual relationships, thinks your "arrangement" is weird. Not that you've talked about it with Dean -- of course you haven't -- but you can tell the whole situation has him frustrated. He's not sure if he should be happy for the two of you or kicking somebody's ass.

You look up at Sam, who seems to be thinking somewhere along the same lines as you are. He looks thoughtful and a little annoyed, and you're suddenly struck with nervousness. You're suddenly worried that this arrangement -- this _thing_ \-- that hasn't yet affected your friendship (at least, not in any way you care to acknowledge) is going to metamorphize into something weird and awkward, and the last thing you want to do is spend the rest of the morning awkwardly breaking up with someone you aren't even dating.

You stretch, languid and cat-like, and smile when his eyes involuntarily travel to your breasts. You wrap your arms around his neck and draw yourself up to peck him on the lips.

"I guess we can both go back to banging random barflies soon."

You wince internally. You meant for that to come out sassy and lighthearted, but it mostly sounded bitter.

Something flashes through Sam's eyes. He balances himself on his forearms and gazes down at you.

"Is that what you want?" His voice is deep, measured, but he almost looks angry.

_No, Sam,_ you want to say. _I don't want anyone else. Ever. I want you. Fuck, do I want you._ But you honestly don't know if he has any feelings for you, or if he just thinks you're convenient, hot, willing. He's about as good at guarding his emotions as…well, as you are.

So you try to keep it light.

"I don't know," you say, shrugging in what you hope is a casual way. "I mean, I'm not Dean."

Sam raises an eyebrow at that and you offer up a weak smirk.

"It's just sex, right?" You say, though your tone isn't quite as convincingly blasé as you were hoping for.

"Right," Sam says.

His jaw clenches ever so slightly and your heart jumps.

"Is…that what you want?" Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, and too damn hopeful.

Sam's face is impassive, unreadable.

"Why not," he says, after a long pause. His eyes flicker from their inexpressive state to something that's very readable: Cold, casual, distant.

You gulp, and nod, and turn over quickly. You don't want him to see your eyes glittering with the exact opposite emotions. You push your face down, and your ass up, and you whisper just loud enough for him to hear you.

"Why not," you echo. "C'mon, fuck me, Sammy."

He slips inside you and you don't have to think about it anymore.

* * *

 "That's it!" Dean exclaims loudly. Your head whips toward where he's standing at the head of the table in the bunker's library. "What is going on between you two?!"

You glance over at Sam, who's sitting on one of the couches, ignoring Dean, and pretending to read.

"Uh…what?" You ask Dean innocently, closing your laptop.

"You and Sammy!" Dean turns on you. "You guys are together, or you're not, I don't know. And now you're both PMS-ing all over the bunker."

Sam continues to ignore Dean. You shrug.

"What, did you guys break up or something?" Dean asks.

"We're not together," you say, quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. "We're just, you know, having fun."

You glance over at Sam, who's looking more and more annoyed at how this conversation is progressing.

"Whatever!" Dean hisses. "I don't really care _what's_ going on, it just needs to stop. We cannot hunt like this."

He turns to his brother. "Sammy, you take her over your knee and spank her--" (You let out a small gasp of indignity at that.) "Y/N, you kick his ass--" (Sam snorts.) "I don't care what you do, but I'm taking Baby out, so Just. Fix. This."

With that, Dean turns on his heel and starts walking toward the garage.

"Dean!" You call after him, but he just waves an arm at you.

"FIX IT!"

A few seconds later the Impala's engine roars to life and the tires squeal out of the garage.

* * *

Now that Dean's gone, the bunker is uncomfortably silent. You look over at Sam, who's gone back to pretending to read. You know he can feel your eyes on him, but he refuses to look up. You let out a sigh and flip your laptop open, and that's when Sam finally decides to join the conversation.

"Just having fun, huh?" He says, closing his book with a thud.

"What?" You ask him, your tone slightly incredulous. "C'mon, Sam."

Sam tosses the book onto the couch next to him and makes an exasperated gesture.

"What do you want from me, Y/N?!" He asks.

You glare at him.

"What do _you_ want, Sam?!"

"What do _I_ want?" Sam stands up angrily and stalks toward you. You stand up quickly, your chair scraping noisily along the floor, just as he rounds the corner of the table. His arm shoots out and he grabs you, wrapping a large hand around your bicep, and pulls you toward him. Not so close that you're touching, but close enough that you have to strain your neck to meet his gaze.

_"What do I want?"_ He looks down at you, eyes narrow and dark.

"I want to bend you over this fuckin' table, whip that pretty ass with my belt, give you bruises that'll last a month," he growls. An involuntary whimper escapes you, and one corner of his mouth quirks.

He pulls you closer, against him, and leans down until his lips are just brushing your ear.

"I want to take you over my knee every day for the rest of my life, keep you marked up so everyone knows who the _fuck_ you belong to."

_"Sammy,"_ you whisper. Your knees buckle and he catches you against his chest. He leans back so he's half-sitting on the table, and that brings him down to your eye level. He's staring at you lazily, and you realize he's waiting for you to continue.

"I, um…" you gulp as you watch the muscles in his jaw and neck tighten. His eyes don't leave your face, even as yours dart all around the room nervously. You start to reach up, to brush his hair behind his ear, but his free hand shoots up to stop you. His other arm unwinds from your waist and he traps both your wrists in his hands.

"What do you want, Y/N?" Sam asks, but this time the question doesn't sound angry or annoyed. His voice is deep, husky, promising.

You look down at your wrists, at how tiny they look in Sam's hands, and then you look up at Sam through your lashes. You take a deep breath, and he waits.

"I want to belong to you."

The words are barely past your lips before Sam is kissing you hungrily, urgently, desperately. Suddenly your wrists are free and his hands are running all over your body, tugging at your clothes and pressing you into him. You try to pull back -- you have more to say -- but he doesn't let you.

"Sam," you murmur. "We should probably…talk about this…"

Sam fists a hand in your hair and makes you gasp.

"Shut up, Y/N," he mutters against your mouth. "I love you, shut up."  

You sigh at that, and he deepens the kiss. The two of you stay like that, clinging to your feelings and each other, for several minutes. Then Sam pulls back, a smirk playing over his lips. You cock your head inquisitively, and he winks.

"Now," he says, unbuckling his belt. "Over the table."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
> For now :)


End file.
